


Tourniquet

by jeeps



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-26
Updated: 2003-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeps/pseuds/jeeps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written in 45 minutes for contrelamontre.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Tourniquet

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 45 minutes for contrelamontre.

They call them inner demons. You sometimes wonder what it means that half of you exists because of them. But mostly you figure, to hell with it, and take the head off one you can see.

Beheading is actually your favorite method of killing.

Your upper body twists as your shakujo twirls in your hand, causing your hair to whip across your face and you realize that tonight the color isn't simply a reminder, tonight it is soaked in their blood and it leaves a trail of rank moisture across your face. Your tongue darts out, runs the taste of it along the roof of your mouth. You spot a young youkai, crouched underneath the shadow of the inn's ratty couch, gaze at you in a sort of detached horror when you do this. You almost laugh, then do, and let your thought bubble to the surface. _Kid, I'm a goddamn connoisseur._

Then you get a closer look, and the bloodlust halts, freezing in your system. The boy's ears and nails are round, and though his eyes and hair are many shades darker than yours, they're still unmistakably youkai. He can't even be a teenager yet. Mistaking this sudden shift in your demeanor as an imminent danger, the boy scrambles back . . . into the folds of a torn and bloody skirt, whipping around his head like a curtain in a breeze. You raise your eyes to meet those of a youkai female, claws retracting from the belly of a man you vaguely recognize as the owner of this inn. You're less paralyzed than . . . transfixed. For a wild moment you cannot understand why she advances on you like a bear protecting its cub.

Something tears at your throat, something that feels like a sob but is more jagged and feral—

—_Momma, the boy whimpers. Pleading, pleading, because he understands, because he wants to make her happy, he wants to make her feel better, if she'll only _let_ him._

Shut up! Shut up, you—that's not my name, who are you to call me that?! The tears running down his cheeks are in tandem with hers, and he thinks that if he could stop, if he stopped the tears, then hers would too and she would be able to smile. But he can't stop, the blade is raising over her head and he can't oh please stop crying please—

—and he never saves her. He destroys her, and now there are only crimson tears running down her neck and no matter how his fingers scrabble at his own he can't find anything—

—and your spine is pressed against the back of the couch, bones shifting against the bar where she presses into you, and you dare not struggle for the wire loop twined around your neck. You dare not breathe, but you figure that won't be a problem soon enough and another millimeter deeper. You can't tell if it's blood or tears swimming across your eyes.

And then there's only Sanzo in front of you, gun still half raised like he forgot he was supposed to be moving his arm on the way down. His own blond hair shines with blood, and you feel a dead weight on your feet. You don't look down.

"What the fuck?" Sanzo's rage is graceless and tightly reined in the curl of his fingers. He might shoot you now and you wouldn't know if it was accidental or not. You notice the room is calm, Goku and Hakkai watching silently amidst a floor of dead youkai. "What the _fuck_, Gojyo?"

Sanzo won't talk to you for a week after that, and even then he only smacks your hand away one night as you start to fix your wound, taking over rougher than necessary and not saying a word. It feels like relief to you, though, and you accept it.

You don't let him see when you slip your fingers under the gauze to skim your nails over the scabs, breaking them open and wondering if the scar will ever be sufficient.


End file.
